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I haven’t always been this nice. Here’s proof.

If you go to my basement and look under my workbench, behind the Christmas ornaments, you’ll find this:

This is a bin filled with journals from my early years in New York. Hundreds of typed, single-spaced pages and about a dozen hand-written books. I occasionally post an extract. I wasn’t always kind to women (or myself, for that matter). Some of it is a bit graphic. But I make no apologies for who I was back then and I ask you to not judge too harshly. I was just a kid. A seeker on a path. The feedback I get on these posts is humbling. People either really enjoy them or they’re being charitable.

February 27, 1993

Somebody put a huge car bomb in the basement of the World Trade Center yesterday. I can’t tear myself away from the TV coverage. It happened at 12:30 in the afternoon. It detonated on the second level of the parking garage and completely demolished three levels. Seven people died and over 650 were injured.

My primary temp agency is in Two World Trade, which is the tower that sustained the most smoke damage. Good thing I wasn’t there! I don’t have hospitalization! The family called to see if I’d been blown to bits. I hadn’t. This time (ha). I’ve got a gig there next week at Lehman Brothers. I wonder if I’ll have a job to go to?

They have no idea who did it but they suspect Yugoslavian nationalists who are mad at us for dropping relief supplies to the Bosnians, who are at war with the Serbs. Fucking Eastern European douchbags. What if that shit had toppled over? Can you imagine?

Sunrise over Queens and the East River.

I went to a play on the Upper West Side by myself. I didn’t know it, but there was a party for singles after the show. I looked around and everyone seemed to have a friend with them for support. I felt like such a loser for being there alone that I couldn’t concentrate on the performance. The thought of wading through a singles party made me so nauseous that I left during intermission. It’s too bad because this morning the play got a spectacular write-up in The Times and now you can’t get tickets.

Bonnie came over on Valentine’s Day. I made a huge vat of white clam sauce, threw it on linguini and called it dinner. I don’t like white wine but Ellis told me not to serve red. Made out on the couch and Bonnie tasted like white wine. She left around midnight. At 12:30 my phone rang. It was Ann. She called to wish me a happy Valentine’s Day and to congratulate me on my move from Brooklyn to Manhattan. She told me she just met Andre Watts. I have no idea who that is. [Note: I do now.]

Can you imagine that poor old thing still carrying a torch for me after all this time? I think she’s 32 or 35 or something like that. I can’t bring her around to my friends. But she’s a dynamo in bed. She would slather us both with coconut oil and we’d roll around on top of each other like two puppies wrestling. The smell of coconut would permeate the bedroom. Now, I get a hard-on if I eat a macaroon.

She’ll try any position. She’s fearless. Laura told me she’s never had an orgasm but Ann has them ALL THE TIME. Once, while looking out her window and watching the sunset over Central Park, she dropped to her knees and delivered the goods. I didn’t ask for it and wasn’t expecting it.

I didn’t want her to become attached but that’s exactly what happened. I hate it when someone is hurting on account of me. It’s such a waste of their time. I’m not worth it. Calling her would just be an excuse to get back into her Upper East Side king size bed. It would be wrong. [Note: It was wrong, but I did it, anyway.]

Sunset over the Hudson River and New Jersey. Both pics taken from my 50th floor office.

My new apartment is nice but the neighborhood is scary. I hear gunshots almost every night. I was walking down the hall to the elevator and a tiny black mouse ran past me. I could have kicked him into his next life but I let him live. Klinger came for a visit and he was offered works three times before he got to my building. [Note: Works = hypodermic needle and accoutrements for injecting heroin.]

There are more journal entries linked in the Memoir category. But if you want to cut to the chase, this post is my favorite. When I read this, it feels like I’m reading about somebody else’s life. But it’s not. It’s mine.

It was a wild time. They didn’t know who to blame. I don’t think Islamic fanatics entered into the picture until way later. I made a funny/not funny comment about the towers tipping over. It gave me the chills. I remember that one, too.

The names have been changed. This is all ancient history, anyway. None of these folks are a part of my life anymore and they haven’t been for a long time. They were all lovely people. I miss some of them.

I spent a lot of time feeling sorry for myself and down. I took it out on other people whose only crime was to like me. Such an amateur mistake. Such a childish way to treat women. I grew out of it, thank god.

I didn’t think I was being blunt at the time but, wow!, in retrospect I was a little raw.

The Trade Center were beautiful buildings. I remember architecture snobs saying they were ugly but I thought they were beautiful inside and out. They were the first thing you’d see when flying in. I miss them.

Hmmmm …that Ann character sounds so familiar… 😉 Mayhaps the old flame reminds you of a current someone. 😀 …just thoughts…random thoughts I have.

Very interested tid-bit about the trade center. Talk about deja-vu when everything happened in 2001! Did you keep journals from that year? Oh my, that would be an interesting read from a die-hard NY’er.

Oh, have you met Ann? Or an Ann? My, what provocative random thoughts you have, grandma. I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.

I was through with keeping journals by 9/11. I wish I hadn’t stopped. My apartment was only a mile from the Trade Center. What a mess it was. There’s plenty of history via the mainstream news outlets but I would have liked to read what was going on inside my own apartment and my own head at the time.

I was fairly diligent about keeping track of the plays I saw but I didn’t record what this one was. Funny…I had the exact same question rattling around inside my head as I was typing this post. Now, I have a moleskin journal I keep in my bag and I record every play I see, the date and the venue. Wish I’d started doing that when I first got here. I’ve forgotten half of everything I’ve seen. There’s been so much.

I’m pretty sure it was the Promenade, which is now gone. I used to see a lot of stuff there. I remember seeing “Wrong Turn at Lungfish” there with George C. Scott, Jamie Gertz and Tony Danza, who is now on the boards in “Honeymoon in Vegas.” The more that things change, etc.

“Honeymoon” got pretty decent reviews. It’s one of those shows that I might see if I can score free or cheap tickets. Second Stage is going to present “American Psycho” as a musical this season. We’ll know we’ve reached the deepest low when the story of Honey Booboo is turned into musical theater. That might sound absurd, but I thought that about “Grey Gardens”. I was surprised to like that as much as I did, but the music was completely forgettable, something I find common about most modern musicals.

I actually don’t see that many musicals. If I get an evening off and have an extra dime for a ticket, I prefer a play. Having said that, I just saw ‘Cabaret’ again and thought Emma Stone can give Natasha Richardson a run for her money in my memory banks. Michelle Williams had good intentions but was awful. Are you a member of TDF? Good discounts there. And I don’t mean the TKTS booth.

No, I haven’t joined TDF. I never do TKTS. Just try to time it right with offers through the likes of Broadway Box. Picking up tickets at the b.o. spares having to pay the fees. Those can really add up. Saw “The River” and its predecessor, “Lady Day at Emerson’s Bar and Grill” for 35 clams because my friend went early enough to get on the day of show rush line. Unlike you, the ethereal quality of “The River” resonated with me. I thought there was something haunting about Jackman’s character and the whole thing was a metaphor, but I’m either too dumb or too fried to know for what exactly. But it’s stuck with me. I liked “Jerusalem” too. Mark Rylance was great in that one, but he’s usually spot on in everything he’s in.

I couldn’t get a discount to ‘Lady Day’ although I really wanted to see it. Rylance plays Thomas Cromwell in a four hour BBC production of Wolf Hall. I. Can’t. WAIT. Thanks for the Soho Rep tip. Did you see ‘The Bullpen?’ Nice work by one man. Not overly-long.

Glad you got a kick out of it. I read these journals and the funny/sad part is that, at the time, I thought I wasn’t having any kind of life at all. Turns out I was having a pretty interesting time. Youth really is wasted on the young.

I wrote as a therapeutic outlet. I couldn’t afford a psychologist and I was deeply troubled. Most of these journals are weeping and teeth-gnashing. I spare you guys that stuff.

That’s my neighbor’s cat. We had to reschedule dog therapy. I feel so stupid doing it but I’m at my wit’s end.

Very real and gritty Mark. It is more honest than any writer I have ever read. That is slightly painful but very freeing. You have forced me to look at things about myself that i would rather leave buried, but feel better for the consideration. That stuff you have in those volumes is exceedingly rare Mark.

Hi Paul. You’re welcome! Thanks for stopping by. Don’t give me too much credit. There are some things in my journal that I’ll never publish. Those books can cut pretty deep. Some things are better left forgotten, but trolling around in your journals don’t allow for that luxury. You are reminded of wounds that never healed.

Thanks, guys. That’s nice to hear. Remember…I had excellent material to work with, and that’s half the battle. It’s wasn’t 70’s default New York, but the city was still flat on its ass. For my part, I was lost and directionless. You can’t beat the one-two combo punch of a desperate individual navigating a desperate city. Anyone could make hay with that.

Re: the Trade Center passage. How creepy is that? I kept in touch with Ann. She forgave me for being such a shitheel and we became good friends. We used to go to Carnegie Hall for concerts. She was my classical music buddy. She lives in Florida now.

Ha! Now I get a hard on when I eat a macaroon! Love that! What do you mean you can’t bring her round your friends? Cos she’s 32-35? You nob end! (English for douche bag) Oh the vanity of youth! I bet she taught you a thing or two by the sounds of it. What’s she up to now?

I don’t know how I ‘d feel about hearing gunshots every night; I think that would depress me.

Well, I love your journals and I think you had a pretty good, misspent time, which is what it should be 🙂

She was the first an only person who ever incorporated coconut oil in the bedroom. So that’s still a unique memory. Can you believe I thought 32 was old?! God, what I wouldn’t give to be that young again. It all slips away. She lives in Florida now. We exchange holiday and birthday greetings.

When you’re young and looking to shake things up, hearing gunshots outside your window seems like just what the doctor ordered. Morbid as that sounds.

All these tales and adventures are nice to read about but it really didn’t amount to anything at all. I wish I had been a bit more driven and focused. I wish, I wish, I wish…

I love this! Fascinating! Quite spooky, your comments about the World Trade Centre – ‘What if that shit toppled over?’
I think you should do more of this, it’s soooooo interesting hearing the difference between your voice then and your voice now. And I love the macaroon bit 🙂

Hello, Becky. Nice to see you here. The World Trade Center paragraph did freak me out a bit when I stumbled across it. I had forgotten. That’s what these journals are good for. Surprises. Every post I’ve done from my journals have been from just ONE of those binders. I’m worried that the others won’t bear such fruitful material.

Loved, loved your book, by the way. My wife loved it, too. I should have made her buy her own copy in stead of borrow mine.

Keeping journals is the best thing ever. I’ve got diaries from 1997 (when I was 12/13) to now – I have been toying with the idea of doing a post on my teenage diary entries, because they are just hilarious.

I wrote because I was so unhappy and didn’t have anyone to talk to. I couldn’t afford a shrink so it was either write or drink. (Some folks do both!) In retrospect, I wasn’t as unhappy as I thought I was. Late realization.

I am going to go buy some macaroons and close the office door… I won’t slather praise on this, no point really. But I will see that I am growing more convinced that I want to novelize your life, or at least what I imagine of it. I think that would be hell of a story, but got a feeling that the reality would read better. It just would.

The WTC bits… toppling over… in 93 the only thing that mattered to me was baseball and girls. What matters to me now are kids and dollar signs. I figure you should always be able to describe your life at any given time through two items. Two is enough.

So if 32 or 35 makes you a poor old thing, what does that make us now??? Incidentally, I use coconut oil in all my cooking. Solid at room temperature so makes for a nice fry, and you can get varieties that taste a lot like coconut or not at all… I’m sure you weren’t thinking about that back then though, rolling around and all.

Well, I should start trying to be charitable, but I bought a fucking vanilla latte this morning. Only on Fridays. Thank you for accompanying my $4.90 coffee. I used to buy comic books for 50 cents a pop. I feel strangely glad that you let that little black mouse live, by the way. I don’t kill spiders and I jump over bits of the sidewalk when I see ants. Why does this all matter, anyhow? Shit, now I feel like bumping out of work and hitting the coffee shop to cram myself in the back corner, and do some real damage on the computer. I think you may have just inspired me to cut out early (or, more accurately, before the work day’s even begun), to create what? Could be maudlin or sopping wet or blazingly angry or entirely too self-aware or insipid or mad… doesn’t matter.

I just finished my latte. What a kick in the ass that is, that last drop.

I wish I weren’t so tied down with obligations. I probably would sit and try to make something of this. Find a thread to string all these together. Might interest someone. Or Hollywood. Trouble is, when I had the time to do it, I didn’t have any cool stories to tell. Now I’ve got the content, but lack the time.

Can you imagine the arrogance of calling 32 old? I never said it to her face and didn’t do anything to make her feel old, but the thought was rattling around in side my head. 32 is a faded memory for me now.

Here’s how old I am: I remember paying 12 cents for a comic. Not 50. There was a vending machine at the corner gas station. You put a dime in one slot and two pennies in another, pushed in the plunger, pulled, and you got and Archie comic.

Thanks, again, for the reblog. Lots of traffic. You have loyal readers.

I know about the time thing, but twenty years from now… thirty years from now… why not now? There’s time, it’s just hard to find, and something else has to give. I know that frustration.

32 is long gone, son. I’ll raise a glass to it and where I was at the time. That 32-year-old Trent was a good chap, I’m sure, but farewell to him and thanks for the laughs. But I am still laughing. It’s a different, heartier laugh, but that’s okay.

12 cents? Wow. I don’t remember the vending machines. I remember comic book shops, with the bargain bankers boxes full of old decrepit stuff. Used to rummage through them, looking for a jewel. I might even have found a couple.

My buddies hereabouts are awesome… they are really great, I can’t say enough. That includes you, of course.

Reblogged this on Trent Lewin and commented:
There is something mesmerizing about Mark’s posts. He needs to be read, deserves to be read – all that stuff. If you haven’t read him before, please go over and have a look, it is well well worth your time.

Despite the wealth of compliments you receive about these posts, you’re still half-wondering if people are just being charitable! It’s seriously good stuff Mark, it really is. A while ago I showed one of these memoir posts to my Neil (the one in the video with me), I very rarely show him any blog posts (apart from mine that he follows religiously and reads meticulously in case of a test of course!), and he loved it, and shared that post on facebook, which is rare thing for him to do. Underneath it all, you come across as vulnerable in those pieces and that’s very endearing.

I noticed you’ve got a few reblogs lately, that’s got to give you a boost!

It’s true. I’ve never been able to take a compliment graciously. It comes from years of self-loathing. I’m not just putting on the old “humble me” act and fishing for flattery. I really do think everyone is just being kind. I may never snap out of it but I’ll try.

The reblogs are the greatest compliment I’ve ever received. It’s a form of validation. It’s saying people aren’t just being kind.

Taking and believing a compliment isn’t easy. My acting teacher said once that if you don’t accept a compliment graciously then you’re insulting the giver of it because you’re either telling them they don’t know what they’re talking about, or accusing them of lying. Since he said that, I try and just say thank you when someone compliments me (whereas before I would have said “Oh no no, I’m not good/pretty/clever, whatever”), but that doesn’t mean that inside I’m not still questioning it! I’m not suggesting that you don’t accept compliments with a thank you, because you do, but getting to the next stage of believing it yourself is a whole other ball game.

I never wrote journals – they’d have been indecipherable gibberish if I had anyway but I’m glad in someways – my past is buried and can’t be unearthed like that. Btw – mine was more boring in the bedroom dept by a long way…. coconut oil?!?!?

Yes. I have some important writings from my time in rehab buried in my study. I don’t want to let them go they are very important to me to remember what I was thinking and feeling at that time and how I thing and feel about a) the past events they recall in the here and now and b) how I thought about them then… also how I think about how I thought about them at the time vs now… that is something lost unlike yours because I never wrote it down then – so it is always a reflection altered by the here and now processing… which is interesting to see…

BUT!!! If my kids read some of that they’d blow a gasket – my wife probably too but I’ve never deliberately hid it from her but then not openly shared it either…

I fear one day I’ll be hit by the proverbial bus and they’ll dig it out along with selling all the guitars etc. and they’ll read it and not show up to the funeral!

That’s my fear exactly! I never intended this stuff to see the light of day. I only filter out the palpable here in my blog but there’s lots that shouldn’t be seen by anyone–lease of all my children, for cryin’ out loud! What to do? It’s one of my biggest conundrums.

Fascinating read. Looking back into anyone’s life we would find things they aren’t proud of and probably forgot. What a treasure that you have these journals and can see how far you have come. Your perspective on the World Trade Centre on that particular day is interesting and reminds us of how the media often get it wrong as they go along until they get it close to right. I look forward to reading more of these.

I’m here due to Trent’s reblog, and I’m so glad I found my way over! How insane to have written record of the 1993 attack on WTC. I was in 8th grade when the 9/11 attack occurred. I wish I’d journaled about that day; maybe I did but I certainly didn’t keep it. Your writing makes me want to get back into journaling, but then I think – what if I’m famous years from now and someone finds them and publishes that shit? I’m not nearly brave enough to have my inner thoughts splayed out for the world like that. I love your writing and am incredibly impressed by your bravery. Looking forward to reading more!

I feel sad for all those who are just being introduced to Mark. They’ve been missing out and although I don’t always comment because I’m a lazy fuck, I enjoy coming here more than so many other places…

What an incredibly generous thing to say about my idiot blog. Thank you. And are you really a lazy fuck or is that just a metaphor for something much deeper? Shakespeare said, “To thine own self be true.”

Oh, there’s LOTS more where this came from. And I would never expect empty platitudes from you. Isn’t Maine the tell-the-truth state or something like that? isn’t that why early presidential candidates flock there? To spew their horrible truths?

Even though you speak of hypodermic needles, this seems to be a more innocent time. I’m sure I’m just biased with the pre-911 dimension of time. It seems so long ago. Oh, and the thoughts and then what happened next! This reminds me of a book I opened recently and it had a letter from my mom in it, talking about the time and people. Now certain people are gone, actually died, such a different time now. I couldn’t even read it all. You don’t need to apologize for your past. It’s life! It’s made you who you are. And relationships are complicated anyway. Great post, as always!

There’s a dark poetic panache to heroin. In literature it’s romanticized. But I can assure you, there’s nothing innocent about it. It was scary. At least it wasn’t crack. Junkies are somewhat slow and benign. Crackheads are violent. That’s about the only good thing I can say about my predicament. Things got better, thankfully.

I don’t think heroin is innocent, or meth either. My brother was a meth addict. I guess because it seemed like a such another time…the pre-terrorist, pre-911 world. I think that’s what I mean. I certainly don’t romanticize drugs. I’m glad things got better!

This is a sharp entry, Mark. Great pacing and tight focus and that shocking foreshadowing start, with the Trade Centers. Holy crap. Gave me chills reading your terrible prediction.

You really should make the time to find the thread and string these together for a screenplay. Ohio bullhead takes on Manhattan in the 90s. Jay McInerny with more guilty sex and less preppy pretensions. A couple breaks, and you’ve got the bankbook to put your two honeys through college, guy.

I never thought about it in those terms. Imagine if I was able to translate this into something that produced enough capital to send my girls to school. That’s the most provocative argument I’ve ever heard. When you put it that way…

Wow. I’ve never kept a journal aside from this blog (which is less than 2 years old), but I don’t think I’d be brave enough to go back and read it, let alone post it to the world. I was such a different person back in the 90’s. Good for you!

Hello, Nicole. Thanks for dropping in and for your kind words. Some of the stuff in my journals is downright painful to read. They functioned as a dumping ground for everything that was troubling me. Some things are toxic and don’t need to be revisited but I can’t seem to resist. Many passages will never see the light of day.

oh, sweetpea! your journal entries always make me feel so old! LOL ’93? your friend was so old, well, you would have thought me ancient! 😉 the WTC bombing entry made me remember what was going on the other coast were i was, certainly not as horrific, but very difficult for me. *sigh* but, your back in the day are very much appreciated and also, a reminder of my own past life. minus, the incriminating/enlightening journals, of course! xoxoxoxo

It’s all a matter of perspective, as we all know. 32 was the good old days for me and it was still about 10 years away at the time of that writing. Who did I think I was, anyway?! I was no prize. Marginally employed with no prospects on the horizon. I’m damn lucky I got as far as I did.

Timely post, for me… While excavating my downstairs storage room, i happened upon a box of my journals from high school. HIGH SCHOOL. Picked up the one on top, which chronicled the summer between my 3rd and 4th year of high school. Before i had my driver’s license. And i was reminded of several things – things that burned. i was a mistress at the age of 17. Yep. Referring to myself as “the other woman” and saying “this is probably the only way i’ll ever be wanted – on the side”. i shit you not, my “boyfriend” was 21 and engaged to someone else, who was in law school in Kentucky.

He and i had a longer history – he never married her, and was working near where i went to college, so we continued the affair another year. Later, i introduced him to a woman he would later marry – who hated me from the start. Having stumbled upon him on Facebook a year ago, i was reminded that i, in fact, dodged a bullet. No… i dodged a heat-seeking missile of certain soul-death.

It’s entirely possible that i might dredge out a few entries. As i reflect on my escape from the Trailer Park, i am reminded that the odds were even worse than i remember…

That mistress shit is a post! Start typing. A fantastic story. God…at 17 I was still watching Scooby Doo cartoons. You grew up fast, fast.

I had a journal from high school. When I went in the Coast Guard, I didn’t trust anyone to hold it in my absence, so I wrapped it tightly in a plastic garbage bag, entombed it in duct tape and buried it in the Metropark system under a distinctive tree. Too much weed and too much time passes and I forgot where I put it. I wonder where that damn thing is?

You’ve got your own bit of the Wilderness Years here now don’t you? Good shit my man, i always enjoy these, funny with all that shit i just wrote about grad school i forgot the day i sat stoned in front of the telly and watched the Oklahoma City bombing coverage, i was the only one in class that night who knew what happened cuz all the real students were studying and writing papers, fucking squares haha, one of these days the lounge will be filled with tales of powder and pills and loose women, it’s coming, once again good stuff.

And isn’t it strange how powerful the olfactory system is, certain smells can make me swoon or sick or stuck in the bread aisle with a hard-on, going to the beach must be a nightmare for you with all the coconut scented lotions and oil… you happen to recall the post and the old high school flame who worked at Taco Bell?

What’s really, really sad is that the 32-year-old that is a dynamo in bed would be like a young trophy wife for me these days. Actually, I am marrying a 32-year-old. We’ll look into the whole coconut oil thing.

I’m not one for much non-fiction. You have to really sell it to me to read a memoir or a diary of some sort from an author. Reading this…I thought it was…just was…There’s a depth that you can’t quite reach. We see an authentic person, no walls. And it’s brave of you to share something like that, especially your past. Thank you. It was wonderful.

Thank you very kindly and welcome! At the time I wrote those I was just looking for someone to talk to. I never would’ve guessed that stuff would end up here. Glad you liked it. The post I linked at the end is my favorite. My glorious, misspent youth!